


Reparation

by Cordelias_Soliloquy



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Imprisonment, Loki Angst, Loki Does What He Wants, Loki Feels, Norse Myths & Legends, Odin's A+ Parenting, Post Avengers (Movie), Protective Thor, Suicidal Thoughts, Thor Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:29:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cordelias_Soliloquy/pseuds/Cordelias_Soliloquy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki has never been one to do what is expected of him--not when he was a young prince of Asgard, and certainly not now, as a prisoner awaiting the day of his trial. An opportunity comes in the form of an unwanted gift, and as Winter's Night approaches, the time of the great Wild Hunt, Thor does not intend to let him contemplate his fate in peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reparation

     The air feels different. It tastes strange, yet familiar on Loki’s tongue. Heavy eyelids close. He tilts his head back—savoring the rare, soothing, gossamer touch of the breeze that cools the beads of perspiration on his brow. Moistening dry lips, Loki exhales in a sneer. The Wild Hunt has begun.

     Loki has witnessed the grand event—Asgard’s feasting tradition—many times over the millennia—even participated once or twice—mostly in his youth, when such activates held little unpleasantness for him and did not serve as a prodding, cruel reminder of what he is not. He can sense the cold, damp presence of the billowing thunderstorm in the wind that signals the event—can almost hear the lingering whisper of the trumpets sounding in celebration.  

     A laugh builds and bubbles deep within his throat and escapes his lips. The sound is startling, shattering the stagnant silence of the lone cell that is located at the top of one of Asgard’s towers. The living arrangement—if one could call it living—is tentative, temporary. Loki is trapped, left scrabbling with ragged nails and tender fingers at the stone walls, his seidr blocked—repressed so that he has no hope of escape—of trickery. There is a maddening, ever-present and throbbing tug at his sorcery, desperate to flow—to be unbidden. How they fear him so, afraid he will speak or twist his way out. Asgard’s rotting sore—Asgard’s betrayer and outcast—The God of Lies—Sly one. Little do they know—the pathetic, blind citizens of the golden city—that the greatest liar in all the realms is their righteous king.  

     There are several guards posted outside of his chamber door—silent sentinels. In the days that Loki has been confined in his cage, he has delighted in systematically pounding on the walls—making any sound loud enough to startle them—to hear the frantic shuffling of feet, the clink of weapon against sheath—the racing heart beats. The game grows tiresome after a while, and Loki no longer gains amusement from their reactions.  

     His prison—his Hel—will be temporary, no matter what surprises the next solitary days bring. He will escape—find a way to unhinge his magicks, or to fool anyone who dares to visit him. Thor will not visit him. It is that, or to merely wait for the trial—wait until he can feel sunlight on his face again—until he can hear Odin’s commanding voice echoing through the halls of The Thing. He will escape either way, whether through his own cunning, the embrace of his sentencing, or through the aid of an ally—the latter being highly doubtful. Surely he will be either sentenced to death, or banished—not imprisoned, not stuck in a cage for eternity.  _Just a few days until the trial. Plenty of time._ If there is one thing that Loki knows, it is how to wait—how to be patient, willing to endure in silence—watch as his plans unfurl and take root. He can wait.  

     Those are his meager options— _For the moment_ , he reasons with himself. He sits cross-legged on the cot in the sparsely furnished room, back ramrod straight against the wall. The only window is high above him and far too small to fit through, perhaps even if his shape shifting abilities were yet intact—but it lets the occasional wisp of a breeze whistling through the bars. It is a pleasant luxury, though he is sure that the window is only meant to serve as a reminder of his fall—of his shame. No escape—the wind hisses—no way to gaze upon Asgard’s glory, his once home.  

     Loki runs his trembling fingers through his hair, wary of the chains that circle his wrists and bite into his flesh, marked with runes that keep his sorcery bound. He smoothes back the long, oily strands that stick to his face and neck. He smirks. The hunt begins on Winter Nights and does not end until May Eve.  Soon a great number of Asgardian warriors will gather on the Bifrost on their steeds, seeking the thrill of the Wild Hunt. They will take to the skies for the tradition that is perhaps as old as Odin himself. Loki can see it in his mind’s eye; the sky darkening, rumbling with thunder and casting a shadow over all the realms—Odin’s hounds, their savage barks and howls striking fear into the heart of whatever poor beast they hunt—perhaps a boar, or a stag. No doubt the mighty Thor will be leading the restless, roaring crowd with Lady Sif and the Warriors Three. Thor has yet to miss a Wild Hunt in all of the long millennia. _Unless he is on Midgard._    

     His mouth tugs at a smirk at the thought of the oaf willingly missing an opportunity to show off his skill and strength, to spend his time with the withering, pathetic mortals. It is too delicious. It might have stung long ago, the thought of Thor—brutish, selfish Thor—having been ridden of centuries of arrogance in mere days by his mortal pet—something that he would never have done for Loki in a thousand years.

    Loki tenses, listening. There are footsteps on the long, winding steps to his prison—dull thuds. The sound is different from the careful, hesitant steps of the thralls who bring him his daily meal. These steps are determined, firm. Loki’s interest is piqued. Perhaps the guards have come to escort him to his trial—hopefully without the cruel muzzle this time. He recalls being paraded through the streets of Asgard to his prison, a spoil of war—insults like daggers hurled at him. But perhaps the people of Asgard have already slaked their lust for his humiliation. 

     The heavy, creaking chamber door—shielded from any escape attempts by Odin’s power—opens wide. Loki hides his shock well, keeping features blank—indifferent. The mask slides easily into place, covering the rage and contempt that nearly doubles Loki over as his stomach constricts, feeding on his loathing. Thor, waving the guards away, strides determinedly into the cell, the door to freedom closing swiftly behind him. The already diminutive room seems to shrink as the massive warrior enters—the walls appearing to bow and twist before his mighty presence. A question lingers in the air—suspended between them.

     There is a tense silence, Loki not willing to be the first to speak. His eyes flick upward to meet Thor’s gaze, his mouth a slash of a smile at Thor’s somber, controlled expression—blue eyes uncharacteristically dull. Loki must savor this.  

     “How are you faring this day, brother?” Thor’s voice, too gruff, asks. “You look well.”

     Loki stands to his feet with a low groan, rolling his stiff shoulders, and makes a big show of swinging and clanging the heavy chains that bind him. “Tell me, Odinson—” Loki hisses, “In all nine days that I have been tucked away in my prison, you have not visited me once. Why have you come?” He lets out a low chuckle, taking in the sight of Thor—committing the dark circles and sagging shoulders to memory.   

     “Father has delayed your trial until after the Wild Hunt festivities have ended. He fears—”

     Loki inhales sharply, eyes narrowing.  _He means to see that I rot in this prison._ “He fears that my sentencing may cause a disruption. Well, I should hate for my execution to dampen the mood of Asgard’s court—would not want anyone to have a sour stomach during the feast, now would we?” His words drip venom like the great serpent that hangs between the branches of Yggrdrasil.

     Thor’s face flickers between a mask of pain and anger. “You truly believe our father would sentence you to death, Loki?” Thor shakes his head, sunshine waves of hair—so much like the sun that Loki is deprived of in his cell—falling into his face. “You are even more far gone than I thought. You are mad—”  

     Loki does little to fight down the snarl of rage that tears through his throat. He lunges forward, only slightly, but enough to make Thor’s fingers twitch to mjolnir at his belt. “You are a greater fool than I thought—if that is even possible—if you believe that the All-father will not enact harsh judgment upon me. I am not his flesh—not his blood—I never have been an Aesir. He may give me a fair trial for the sake of his appearance only, but he will not hesitate to slaughter me like he has thousands of Jotuns in the past.” The words tumble from his lips in one breath, as if they have been perched on his tongue, waiting to be unleashed. He feels faint, tries to regain his breath.

     “Why do you twist every word to feed your spite?” Thor’s muscles tense as his temper rises. “He mourns you even now, Loki—for though you are back in Asgard, you are still lost to us. The tesseract has poisoned your mind—”

     “My mind?” Loki bares his teeth, “I have never been more aware and enlightened than I am now. My eyes have been opened to the All-father and his lies—his hypocrisy. I would rather die by my own hand than return to the vulgar illusion of Asgard’s halls.”  

     “Loki, you do not mean that—”   

     “I meant it when I let go at the Bifrost, and I mean it now as well.” Loki states, his tone dull with disinterest, though the words burn in his chest and make his throat constrict. Thor—having always worn his heart on his sleeve—does not try to hide the hurt in his gaze. After some pause, Loki speaks again, calm. “Why did you not simply send a thrall to inform me, if it angers you so to be in my presence?”

     Thor shakes his head, turning to the doorway. “Perhaps I should not have come. Our friends advised me against visiting you, and for a while I agreed, after all you have done—” He hesitates, fists clenching by his sides, “But you are still my brother.”

     Loki scoffs at the sentiment, folding his arms across his chest. “I would have thought you to be far from Asgard’s halls by now.” He smirks, narrowing his eyes that fix on Thor’s back. “Dark times have befallen Asgard if its Golden Prince must forgo the historic festivities.” there is an implication—a question in his words that hovers in the air.  _Tell me, Thor—what has happened in Asgard that needs your attentions more than the hunt?_

     “I must go.” Thor turns his back on Loki, striding to the door. He halts, but does not twist to face him. “I will return once I have news of your trial.”

     Loki sneers. “Don’t bother. Have Odin send another of his loyal fools to wage his wars for him.”  

     The door shuts sharply; sealing the room with energy once more, taking the fresh, clean air with it. There must be a reason for it—his continued stay in his prison—other than the Wild Hunt. He recalls hazy, muffled words spoken to him what seems like ages ago—spoken to a deluded being who had still clung to the hope that he was one of the Aesir.  _There is always a purpose to everything your father does._ Loki takes a step back and falls onto the cot, contemplating Thor’s words, his gestures. Something is weighing on the Golden Prince’s shoulders—some yoke nearly too heavy for even him to bear. Loki has time to figure it out.  

     “Perhaps the myths of old are correct,” Loki whispers to himself, leaning back against the cool stone wall, “and the Wild Hunt truly does spell misfortune for all who witness it.” He smirks. “One can hope.”  

* * *

      Thor’s footsteps echo loudly off gold-gilded walls and high ceilings as he strides determinedly down the hallways of Asgard’s palace. He glides past servants who lift heavy woven baskets, piled high with fresh, abundant fruits and cheeses, while others carry pitchers of ale and shining vases to decorate the long table. The banquet hall is humming with murmuring voices and faint clattering, all preparing for the great feasts and celebrations that precede and follow the Wild Hunt.

     Guards greet Thor silently with heads bowed low as he approaches the throne room, and they quickly step aside to let him enter through the great doors. Before Thor can open his mouth to speak, the All-father raises a hand to silence him. Thor halts just inside of the door, watching as Odin addresses the guard that kneels before his throne. The voices are hushed and muffled, sounding strange and underwater, bouncing off of the circular walls oddly, and the guard hurriedly bows before standing and exiting the room, a wooden casket cradled in his hands.

     It is only after Odin nods his head that Thor steps forward. “Father, I must speak with you, regarding Loki’s trial—”

     Odin exhales tiredly, his face weary and sagging with age and his burdens. “I trust you have been to visit him against my will?”

     “He seems to have no doubt that you and the court will sentence him to death. He is not in his right mind, Father, and I fear that delaying the trial will only allow him to further nurse his madness and rage.” Thor tries to keep his voice calm, his tone respectful, but at Odin’s impassive gaze—his blank, emotionless expression, he feel his chest tighten with impatience.

     ”What would you have me do?” Odin’s words are firm and unyielding. “As king of this realm, it is my responsibility to act on what is best for my kingdom, not on what is most pleasing to me. The trial will only bring misery and darkness to Asgard—for her people to see one of our own tried for his betrayal. I cannot allow it.”  

     “The trial should happen in two days time, as planned.” Thor wavers, lowering his voice, “It is—it is  _cruel_  to make Loki suffer in uncertainty for so long, not knowing his fate.”

     The All-father leans forward, knuckles blanching as he grips the arms of his glimmering throne, his features dark in the flickering firelight. He bares his teeth in a grimace. “What he has done to Midgard and to our people is cruel. I have my reasons for delaying his trial, and you will accept them.”

     Thor remembers Loki’s words, his stinging insults and jabs at the All-father and his lies.  _Do you care, Father? Do you truly care for our Loki, who is still so lost?_ Thor’s eyes fix on the floor, on the blurred, distorted reflection that ripples across the tiles in molten gold.

     “I must insist, Thor, that you show the people of Asgard’s rulers are still as strong, and as loyal as ever, by leading the hunt tomorrow. It will give them something to celebrate again, and it will be a wise move for the future king.”

     Thor shakes his head slowly. “I no longer find the same satisfaction or thrill from participating in the sport. I feel I am needed here, in Asgard, for the time being. Perhaps next Winters Night.” Without another word, Thor simply bows his head and makes his way across the room and out through the door. The air that greets him as he walks past the balcony is cold and crisp, smelling of frost and rain, and the lush red curtains that hang from the windows billow in the evening breeze. Resigned, Thor makes his way to his chambers.  

* * *

 

     Loki inhales slowly, nostrils flaring, and exhales through tight lips. He closes his eyes, breathing in and out in a rhythmic pattern, and focuses on his bound seidr—the tendrils of energy and magicks that hover in his veins, behind his eyelids—if he can only reach it and pull some sorcery forth to do his bidding. He meditates on the energy, pulling his wrists apart wide until the chain goes taunt, willing it to break. He only has enough magicks in him to keep his Aesir appearance in place, and this can be manipulated to a degree.  _To keep Odin’s shame to a minimum._

       Loki opens one jade eye as the door to his prison opens. He does little to hide his sneer as the servant ducks into the room, bringing with him his daily meal on a tray. This servant is different, new—and although they always come armed, this man carries a spear and wears a helmet of a royal guard, one of Odin’s personal warriors.  _Interesting_. It appears that Loki’s mischief regarding the previous servant—in which he had cast a weak, flickering illusion with the last vestiges of his magicks, making a duplicate of himself—has been reported to the All-father. Loki manages to feel some small sense of pride at the fact that he requires more cautious surveillance and security than most who have been locked away in the towers of Asgard. They should fear him—they are right to be wary, for when he escapes, none shall be spared from his wrath.

      At Loki’s unrelenting glare, the servant promptly lowers the tray onto the small table, the only furniture besides the cot and the washing necessities that are allowed. The door opens and closes in a flash, leaving no room for any hasty attempt to run, and Loki is sure that, while wearing his shackles, the barrier of Odin’s magicks would throw him back into the room should he try to cross it. At least escape will be somewhat of a challenge. The All-father surely has thought of everything.  

     Loki swings his legs over the side of the cot, leisurely stretching his limbs, arching his back with a groan. The chains rattle mockingly as he crosses the small space, bending slightly to retrieve his tray. His fingers dance past the brittle hunk of bread and the dried meats, snatching up an apple from the plate. The skin is a pale yellow with flecks of red, and the texture is soft and juicy as he bites into it. Not quite the quality and richness of the golden apples from Idunn’s orchard, but it is sweet and satisfying, and it helps to sooth the gnawing ache in his stomach. He pauses, swallowing, and wipes his chin on the inside of his wrist. There is a little rectangular box—a wooden casket on one side of the tray.

     “What is this?” Loki purrs, tips of fingers sliding over the smooth surface of the box. He sets the apple to the side, crouching to examine his gift. “Does someone wish to show me favor?” He opens the golden catch, lifting the lid, and stares at the curved, glinting silver dagger, incased in a mold of red silk. His hands hover over the box, hesitant, for the item could very well be cursed. His eyes widen. It has to be a mistake—an error on the part of the new servant.

     Retreating to his cot, Loki sits across from the table, gaze fixed on the little casket and the gleaming thing within it. He runs his fingers through his greasy hair, tugging mercilessly as a wave of rage tears through his chest. Perhaps someone plans to frame him, to increase his sentence, to make him into a scapegoat for some petty crime. Or, Loki reasons, an ally in or outside of Asgard has given him a token to ensure his freedom.

      He crosses the room again in lithe steps, prying the knife out of its casing with ease. The dagger is small, but his hand still has room to wrap around the leather-wrapped bone hilt. The blade is light as he twirls it between his fingers, strange markings and ancient runes covering one side. He walks backwards, eyes still locked on his prize, and eases himself down onto the cot once more. Loki holds the dagger up to his face and, steeling himself, he presses the tip of the blade to his index finger, pressing down gently. A short gasp of pain is prelude to a breathy laugh of delight.

     “The blade is sharp. It seems the Fates are on my side.” He smiles fondly at the drop of blood that dribbles sluggishly from the cut, as his skin slowly knits together. This is to be his escape—for surely whoever delivered such a weapon to him was betting on his escape before his trial. But this is just one mere layer of his plan—one tool to use to his advantage. He will need more than a simple knife.

     Tucking the dagger carefully under the bedding, Loki returns to the lonely, half-eaten apple that rests on the edge of the table, forgotten. He chews thoughtfully, resting his head against the stone wall, his brain humming with the possibilities his new gift brings, blocking out the constant roaring that makes his head throb. A thought slithers through his mind, sending icy chills rolling down his back. The servant—he was one of Odin’s guards—different from the regular, whimpering thrall that was usually sent to him. Odin’s guard, Odin’s gift. The apple core drops from his hand onto the floor with a dull thud. Of course—it is a trick, a test. A test to see what he is capable of—what he will do when given such a beautiful and destructive present, in order to pass judgment on him should he be around for the trial. The apple residue tastes bitter and corrosive in his mouth.

     “Clever,” Loki hisses as he jumps to his feet and blindly tears at the cot, nearly shredding the coarse fabric in his mad haste to collect the dagger, “but you will not fool me. I will not dance to your tune—I will not bend to your will.”

“There you are, you foul little thing.” He cradles the blade with hands trembling with rage, summoning all of the strength he can muster from limbs weak from lack of use, prepared to throw the cursed weapon out of the small window above him. “I refuse your gift, All-father—your mocking treasure—” He halts, lowering the knife, and frowns. No—he will use this stratagem—this shimmering falsity—to his gain. He will spite Odin with it. He will not use it—or perhaps he will. Perhaps he will knowingly fail Odin’s test and use it for acts of violence and vengeance. A smile curls his lips, laughter bubbling in his throat

     Loki half-collapses onto the bed, dagger still clutched to his chest, and tucks the wretched thing under the linins once more, as tenderly as a mother would wrap her child in a blanket. He is tired—strained from his anger, from the constant, nagging thoughts. He allows his eyes to close, and he wills sleep to come to him. He can feel the dagger—the twisting shape of it—under his back beneath the bedding, ever-present. Loki will need rest, for there is much planning and calculation that needs to be done, come tomorrow. As the start of the Wild Hunt nears—Thor leading, thunder rumbling in his mind, the trumpet sounding—Loki prepares to enter a hunt of his own. 

* * *

          The pale light of morning brings with it the chill of Winter’s Night, for the day of the hunt has arrived at last. Light, tinted a rich orange by the red drapes that shudder in the winter wind, pours through the windows and pools in sunny patches on the gold-tiled floors and on rugs of animal pelts. Thor awakens to the sight, shielding his eyes from the obtrusive light, and rolls groggily out of bed.  After dressing in a plain tunic and trousers—not bothering to don his usual silver regalia—Asgard’s Golden Prince wanders from his chambers and into the courtyard. A smile graces his lips as he gazes on the quiet chaos before him, Asgard’s finest warriors gathering their weapons and supplies and saddling their rides. The horses snort and tug at their tethers in anticipation, their breath like smoke in the air. A year ago, he would have been one of the riders, desperate to prove himself, to lead the hunt.

     As he approaches, the warriors bow to him or merely nod in acknowledgment, save for The Warriors Three, who wave and beckon him to the stables. “So you’ve decided to join the hunt after all, then?” Volstagg bellows with a laugh as Thor bridges the gap between them.

     “Since when has Thor allowed anyone else to take the glory?” Fandral offers a grin, sunlight reflecting brilliantly off of his pale hair. He slaps Thor on the back before returning to bridling his horse. “I do hope you don’t intend to ride Sleipnir—”

      “Aye,” Volstagg chimes in, eyebrows wiggling, “I’d say it’s cheating to mount that eight-legged beast to chase down the kill—fastest horse in the nine realms.”

     Thor chuckles at the jests, though the gesture feels forced. He smiles weakly, clapping Volstagg on the shoulder. “I will not be joining you, my friends, though I would enjoy taking the victory from you again,” he pauses, all too wary of the disappointment plainly visible in the eyes of his companions, “I am needed in Asgard. I wish you luck.”

     Fandral and Volstagg exchange glances with Hogun, who merely pats the shining neck of his horse in silence. Though they do not voice it, the masks of their faces whisper of their concern, the confliction they feel toward Loki’s betrayal, their question of Thor’s loyalty to them. “Is there nothing we can do to persuade you?” Fandral inquires, arms outstretched, “Remember what fun we had last Winter’s Night, how you lead the hunt through Alfheim after that wild boar?”

    Thor laughs at the memory, of the victory and the long night of drinking and feasting. “Ah, yes—what a night that was, when we finally felled the creature after days of giving chase.”

     Thor recalls the rush of the icy, biting wind through his hair and clothes as he and the other warriors galloped through the thick, weaving woods of Alfheim home of the light elves. He remembers the faint sting of branches against skin, the whinnies and frothy panting of the horses, hooves pounding, battle cries ringing through the stagnant air, the boar finally falling under the blades of axes and the piercing of arrows—the great feast that awaited them on their return. The memory is fresh—raw to his senses—yet it feels like a millennia ago—a time when he was still an arrogant boy.  _When Loki was not so lost._

“Sif would be pleased if you accompanied us. The warriors need a good leader to guide the pack.”

     Thor returns to himself, brought to the present by Volstagg’s voice. He smiles half-heartedly, his chest tightening with the sudden pang of sorrow that fills him. “I thank you for asking, but I must stay here, should Midgard need me.” Without another word, Thor turns from the mass of warriors and walks across the courtyard, shielding his eyes against the too-bright light of midday. What was keeping him on Asgard and away from the hunt? Thor’s mortal friends were more than capable of handling any threat to their planet.  _Loki_. Thor is puzzled over his own thoughts, over the idea that he stays for Loki, who has done so much wrong and deserves his imprisonment. Why should Thor deprive himself for Loki’s sake—and what would Loki, or anyone, gain from Thor’s not participating in the hunt?

     He is punishing himself.

     The realization hits him, rolling over him like a wave, engulfing him. No—it is not only that—not only to punish, but to stay, should Loki need him—should Loki escape or repent. Thor doesn’t know which option is more likely. Fandral’s words, his reminding of the last hunt, linger in his mind.  _Were you bitter and spiteful even then, brother? Were you harboring your grudges and quietly internalizing every slight and cruel jest even then?_ As Thor strides across the balconies of the palace, no purpose in his steps, he recalls the same event as before, but this time he focuses on what he has missed. He remembers Loki, silent and brooding, seated at the great table at the night of the feast.

      The room had been alive, seemingly humming with electricity, and all of the voices, lips moving—loud, laughing, roaring—merge into a single, unintelligible sound. Amid the mass of moving bodies, reaching arms, and the clattering of mugs and knives, the slender figure had been easily overlooked or lost as he slipped from behind a golden pillar and sat himself beside Thor. Shadows had danced on the walls in the flickering firelight, telling the story of the battle.

     Thor had slammed down glass after glass of ale, grinning as a servant instantly refilled his cup, spilling froth over the sides and onto the bench. He had laughed deeply at Volstagg’s creative and theatrical reenactment of the final chase and the death of the boar. Loki had usually been quite the life of the festivities in earlier years, especially after having consumed a great deal of mead. He had always been one to jest and embellish stories and tales in a way that no one else could. Thor thinks now that he should have noticed the small changes—how reclusive and withdrawn Loki had become then—should have seen past the mask of mischief and false humor.

     Millennia ago, Thor’s little brother had ridden by his side and they had made the hunt a game of competition between them—but those memories are blurred and muffled now—like a long-forgotten dream. The last year had been different—for Loki had lingered at the back of the pack and had not congratulated Thor on his kill. The night of the feast, in which the boar had been prepared for eating, Loki had not been present until the party was nearly over, and when he did arrive, he had hardly spoken a word.

 

* * *

     “What news do you bring?”

     Thor hesitates long enough for Loki to sneer condescendingly at him—knowingly. “I do not understand—”

     “You vowed not to return unless you brought news of the trial.” Obviously pleased with himself, Loki crosses his arms and smirks. “Tell me—why have you come this time—why are you not at the hunt?”

     Thor sits down on the empty chair by the table, turning it to face the cot. He ponders this question, finding that he does not truly know the answer himself. Why had he come to see Loki? He suddenly feels foolish and rash, out of place in the damp, humid prison cell, face-to-face with the hated betrayer of Asgard.  _My brother._ He had been walking through the streets of Asgard, past people preparing for the feasting celebrations, when he had wandered too far and ended up at the foot of the massive tower that held Loki’s prison.”I merely came to see that you are well.”

     He glances around, suddenly aware of the stifling heat of the cell, how little breeze is let in through the one window. He looks next at the nearly untouched tray of food that rests on the table, frowning. He looks up, strands of golden hair falling into his face, and notices with a pang the dark circles that linger under his brother’s eyes—his thinning frame.  _Does he damage his health purposefully?_  “Why do you not eat? Is the food not suitable?”  

     Loki laughs quietly, twirling a loose thread from the fraying blanket beneath him. “I do not care for it. The fruit is passable, when they supply it.” Jade eyes flick up to meet blue, and Thor tenses. “You have not answered my question.”

     “I am needed on Asgard, and I will stay here, should Midgard need my assistance.” The words feel false, though Thor is not sure why.  _Do you not see that I am here for_ you _, Brother?_

     “You have never passed up a hunt before in all the millennia.” There is an implication in Loki’s words, as if Thor is withholding information from him. Thor tries to find something to say, his mind wandering to the many Wild Hunts of the past, and of a little brother who rode by his side through storms and hail.

      “I remember us playing and hunting together as boys—in the realm of the light elves—how we used to jest and laugh so loudly, we would scare the game away with the ruckus.” Thor chuckles softly, though a frown quickly follows. He wrings his hands, glancing down at his lap, lost in the hazy memory—unsure of himself or what to say to this man—this spiteful, broken, vengeful madman who wears his brother’s face as a mask. “Surely those days are not yet tainted by your delusions as well? Is not there any fondness to be found in them—in our youth?”

     Loki stares unblinkingly, and though his gaze is fixed on Thor, his eyes are blank and glazed over, as if he is not really seeing him at all. Thor half reaches out to him, unnerved by Loki’s unmoving form, when he suddenly looks up. Loki’s eyes flash and he sits up, swinging long legs over the side of the cot, one hand fluttering over a spot on the blanket briefly, as if searching for something—but he merely folds his hands in his lap. Although his knuckles blanch at the tightness of his hands grip, Thor can still see the tremors that Loki tries to hide.

     “I remember a hunt,  _Odinson_ —when we were children scarcely old enough to wield weapons or be left unsupervised, and the All-father had us dressed in thick furs and supple leathers, armed with bows and arrows, and he sent us into the forest to hunt.” Loki pauses, swallowing hard the saliva that builds in his throat, teeth bared in a predatory snarl. “The All-father had told us of a white stag—a lone outcast, alienated from its kind—so rare that it would make a grand prize indeed. The snow fell heavy and fast as we ducked into the woods, behind trees, waiting. We did not dare speak to each other for fear of frightening the prey, and although the All-father stayed in the clearing for our return, we knew that Huginn and Muninn flew overhead and watched us.

     "I saw how you excelled in your training already, as young as you were—how the warriors boasted of your skill with a blade—and how the All-father doted on you, his firstborn, his precious one. I knew that this was my chance—my chance to outshine Asgard’s golden son, the light of the realms—the mighty Thor. When we saw the stag—so white it made the snow seem dull in comparison—so alone, so magnificent, so  _free_ —I faltered for a fraction of a second, just long enough for you to take the shot and strike the beast down—”

     Thor’s eyes widen at the images, so familiar, yet also so very different from what he remembers—so different from Loki’s retelling of events. Thor remembers no stillness—no silent contemplation of the white stag and its beauty, no hesitation or doubt in his mind. While Loki only saw a fleeting chance to prove himself, Thor had seen adventure and an easy kill, an entertaining day of sport with his little brother at his side. Of course Thor had wanted to prove himself also—to prove himself a worthy hunter and warrior to Father—there had been no desperation in his actions, no second thoughts.

     Loki’s expression is thoughtful, almost serene and calm, though his body still trembles with something akin to rage and sorrow—some manic, chaotic mixture of emotions that Thor cannot place. “I know not why I stopped—I had no qualms about the sport of hunting, for we had been raised to think it noble and right…I thought of finding another deer and killing it, or collecting fallen fruits to give to the All-father, but I knew that he only wanted the white stag and would refuse anything else…” He trails off, confused—dazed, before continuing. “I helped you carry the carcass to Father—” his voice hitches, “The snow and our furs were soaked and stained crimson by the blood, and though I am sure he knew, he asked which one of us had felled it. Odin was silent the journey home, and I thought we were in trouble, somehow.

     "A feast was held that night to honor the sons of Odin, and Father bestowed a gift upon you—a golden dagger crafted by the dwarves of Nidavellir.” His features contort, fists clenching, then he smiles. “I waited and waited—my fear growing—for Father to present me with a gift. I sat and waited long after the servants had cleared the mugs of mead from the great table, and after Mother had retired to her chambers. When I finally found the courage to approach Father, to ask him what I had done—why I had received no gift—he merely looked at me and walked away. He gave me nothing.”

     “I did not know.” Thor’s voice is strained and he struggles to find something to say.

     Loki grimaces, leaning back so that his face is cloaked in shadows, distorting his features, two black hollows where eyes should be. “I know now that our hunting trip was a test—a test to see which one of us possessed the proper strength and skill—to assume the throne.” He throws back his head and laughs—sick, humorless laughter. “I would pass his test now. I would kill the beast without question or remorse.” Once again, Loki’s hand hovers over the blankets on the cot. “I should have known then what I came to know later—that I would never be your equal in his eyes, or in the eyes of Asgard’s people, even if I had been the one to kill the stag. It would have made no difference.”

     “I do not doubt your tale, Loki—” Thor interjects cautiously, his chest tightening from the depths of his brother’s pain and delusions, “But I know that our father never meant to wound you in such a way. He has always cared for us—perhaps in different ways—but he cared for us with equal ferocity.” He steels himself, breathless, hope filling him, “Loki, if you plead for forgiveness at the trial—if I speak on your behalf—maybe—”

      “Why? So that I may crawl and grovel my way back into the royal line—that hideous lie—back to being your hated subordinate, pretending to be Aesir when I am an outcast Jotun?” The sound of chains rattling violently gives Thor enough warning to stand to his feet, hand hovering over where mjolnir is clasped to his belt, as Loki charges forward, inches away from his face. Thor recoils only slightly, not budging or showing the startled, disgusted fear that he knows Loki wants to provoke in him. “I want no  _mercy_  from a hypocrite like him—no mocking pity and grace from Asgard’s court. I will not lower myself and express false regret before him, if only to lessen my punishment slightly. I will take the full brunt of whatever tortures Odin has planned for me, and I will show no remorse.”

     Thor growls under his breath, fists clenching at his sides. “If you would only release your pride, Brother, and accept the grace that the All-father is willing to show you—” Thor does not realize that he is shouting at this point, all restraint forgotten. “You must repent for your crimes against the realms.”

     “And then what? I will never belong in Asgard after what I have done—I have never been one of them. There is nothing now that I desire from Asgard—there is only vengeance.” Loki’s voice is equally loud, venom spilling from his lips.  

     “Do not act as if you are the lone victim, Loki. You may have been wronged in the past, but Midgard has suffered the most from your pain—and Asgard with it, though I know you once cared for the welfare of our home more than I.” Thor closes his eyes briefly, exhaling harshly. “I too carry blame for your fall, and for the destruction that followed, and I am sorry—but you have done horrible things without true cause.”  

     The silence is stagnant and tangible in the air. Thor braces himself for the verbal attack that is sure to follow—for a response. There is only silence.

     “Do not come here again.” Loki’s whisper is commanding and cold. Without another word, Thor turns his back on Loki and exits the room. The chamber door slams shut behind him, firm and final. But he will be back—he knows he must come back.

* * *

 

       _Do not come here again_. Loki means his words with his whole being, but he knows that Thor will not listen. Thor never listens. Thor only acts. The door closes and Loki strains his ears to listen as Thor’s footsteps slowly fade as he walks down the winding staircase, disappearing. “If you return, I am sure I will try to kill you.” He hisses into the dark of the prison, the sound lingering in the air, oddly resigned, yet disappointed.  

     The scoffs at his wasted opportunity—at his reluctance to use the blade when he had the chance, when Thor had been a breath away from him, off his guard. But to what end? Even if he decided to use the dagger against Thor—killing him would be difficult with such a small weapon, and in his weakened condition with no magicks, chained, would have no chance of escape. It would be a futile effort, even if he did succeed, and it would gain him nothing. _No—I would have vengence. Odin would be guilt-stricken if he found that I used his gift to such a dark purpose, to kill his heir—seen for the foolish old man that he is. He will be responsible, in gifting me the dagger for his petty test._ But the act would ensure his death sentence at trial.

     Even if he uses the dagger to wound Thor, distracting him enough to break for the exit, the chains still bind his magicks and most likely prevent him from penetrating the barrier. If he intends to try, he must find a way to test the limits of the energy that bars his exit, and to see if his theory is correct.  _It is futile, no matter what move I make. The All-father has made sure of that._

     Loki stands, steadying himself against the edge of the cot, and strides with slow, careful steps to the doorway. He holds out his arms in front of him, hands open, fingers outstretched, chains clinking softly against the thighs of his trousers. He halts a few steps away from the chamber door, staring hard at the enchanted barrier. He reaches out gingerly until the tips of his fingers touch the cool metal of the door, skin pricking at the pleasant chill. He can feel the energy—Odin’s magicks sealing the exit from an escape attempt—but he must test the strength of it soon. Nodding to himself, he decides that the next morning, when a servant comes to take his tray, he will challenge the barrier.

     He has to try. Loki has never been one to accept the options given to him—he will make his own options. As he lies down on his back on the cot, the rough, fraying blankets stiff beneath his body, he stares up at the high stone ceiling and the lone window. Would it be a defeat if he merely waited calmly for his trial—for his judgment? True, it would prove himself correct in his reasoning that he has never belonged in Asgard, that the All-father will not show him mercy, no matter what he decides to do with the knife—but he would also be humiliated in front of the court, having his charges thrown at him from the mouths of hypocrites. But he cannot allow himself to be caged—to be punished, locked away and tortured, or beheaded for his crimes—not when he has yet to taste the satisfaction of revenge on his tongue, not when he still has plans for Asgard and her people. He would never have peace—not in imprisonment.

     Loki exhales, eyes closing and neck arching with a sudden want—a sudden feeling of desperation. His fingers reach for the air, for an idea that he can feel—not tangible, just out of his reach. But it would be so  _easy_ —like slipping into a pool of water—to let go, to accept his punishment and not act, to give in. It would be a kind of peace—to not argue or savagely defend his actions in trial, to kneel in silence and accept his fate. He laughs at himself, a starling yelp in the maddening silence of the room.  _Since when do I listen to what that oaf says?_

     But he will not relent. Not when he has come so far—too far to give up and to repent—not when he has done no more wrong to Asgard than Asgard has done to him. More sinned against than sinning. He must try.

* * *

     “How did this happen?” Thor’s tone is gruff, his voice booming and bordering on rage as he glares down at the cowering servant. The man bows his head in apology, not daring to look into the face of Thunder itself. He stands in the doorway of the prison cell—an empty room before him. At the hesitancy of the servant, Thor asks again, louder this time.

      “My Liege—when I entered the cell this morning, the prisoner attempted escape—”

     Thor feels a growl rising in the back of his throat, clawing to be unleashed. _Loki._ “Where is he now?”

     “He was taken by guards to the healing room, Your Majesty. Forgive me.”

     Thor nods solemnly, anger tensing his muscles and making his fingers twitch over mjolnir’s handle. Looking down, he sees the abandoned basket of apples he had swiped from the great feasting table, hastily dropped to the ground in his shock to find a brother-less cell in Asgard’s highest tower. “Take comfort—you are not to blame here.”

     Thor turns away from the scene. In truth, Thor had not intended to return to visit Loki so soon—not after how their last conversation ended in strained silences and words said in moments of reckless and heightened animosity. But when he had spoken with his mother of long summer days spent in Idunn’s orchards with Loki as boys, of hunting in fields, of sparing and pranking unfortunate guards, he had felt compelled to return, at Frigga’s insistence. In the absence of his friends—of the lovely maiden Sif, and the Warriors Three—Thor had found himself in a state of detachment, unsure if he had made the right choice in staying in Asgard—and so he had gathered ripe apples and golden pears for a man who did not deserve such luxuries.  

     He feels like a fool for— _for what?_  What had be been expecting? For Loki to submit to imprisonment—to listen to him, to have been waiting in his cell for Thor to visit again? He should have known why such extreme precautions were taken to hold Loki in the tower—for Odin had known that he would attempt escape if he could. Thor sighs, running a hand over his face, as if to wipe away the weariness that lingers there.

     “Was anyone else hurt?” He faces the servant again, who quickly bows his head.

     “Just the prisoner, Your Majesty.”

     Thor’s brows knit together, stomach churning. How easy it is for the servants of Asgard to merely call Loki, their former Prince and once-king,  _the prisoner._ If Loki had wanted to escape, would he not have murdered anyone who dared to stop him? He braces himself. “How badly has he been injured?”

     Thor listens without interrupting as the shaken servant paints a picture of the scene for him with his hesitant words, of how the instant he had entered the cell, Loki had been waiting to the side, hidden in shadows, and had bolted for the open door. He had made the door before it closed, but once he crossed the threshold, he had been thrown back with such force that he had been knocked unconscious, striking his head on the stone floor. Odin’s sorcery had done its task by preventing Loki’s escape, but the effects had been violent, and the guards had to escort the injured prisoner to the healing room.

 _He should have known better. He is blessed by the Fates that he was not killed._ It is unlike Loki to act without thinking his plans through thoroughly. The man’s description of Loki as deranged—unwell and manic—has upset and unnerved Thor more than he would admit—how senslessly he had thrown himself at the barrier. Surely that had not been an attempt at escape—not when Loki knew better. He walks away from the room, leaving the basket of fruits on the floor of the cell, and leaves the tower, Loki’s pervious statements repeating in his mind.

_“I would rather die by my own hand than return to the vulgar illusion of Asgard’s halls.”_

     “ _Loki, you do not mean that—”_   

     “ _I meant it when I let go at the Bifrost, and I mean it now as well.”_

* * *

 

     He had felt the breeze—the cold, biting wind of winter on his exposed skin—inhaled the sweet, crisp air. He had felt sunlight on his face, warming his clothes. He had gazed upon the city—the palace, a shining jewel in the distance—so bright he had to turn his face away from the sight. The guards had dragged him roughly from the tower to the healer—when he had tried to walk on his own, he had fallen, and thus had to be carried. But it had been worth it—the test of the barrier, for he had seen the outside of the tower for the first time in weeks. Most importantly, he focused as much as he could on memorizing the layout of the tower—and now he knew that the chains were indeed the energy that barred him from leaving. If he wants to escape—he will need to rid himself of the shackles.

     He sits on the cot now, senses raw and mind sharp from the stinging pain that resonates from the back of his skull. It had not been a fracture, but the healers had been forced to cut his hair so that they could treat the wound and prevent infection. He runs a hand through his now short, hopelessly ragged hair—like a thralls hair, cut close to show submission and baseness. How fitting. They had cleaned him, dressed his wounds, allowed him to shave and bathe himself, then he had been escorted back to his prison—away from the sunlight. For the first time in days, Loki feels like himself again—clean, his lungs still full of fresh air—and the ever-present ache of his skull that makes him feel aware and alive.

     When he finds the woven basket of apples, his first instinct is to check for the dagger, for someone has been in his room while he was away. The blade is still there, gently tucked under the bedding and glinting darkly at him. He only has enough time to throw the blanket over the knife before the door slams against the wall and Thor strides in, face blank and blue eyes burning.

     Loki backs up into the cot, nearly tripping over himself, and laughs sharply, anxiously. “Come to punish me for my escape attempt—come to break my will?” He keeps his expression indifferent, though his heart pounds in his chest as his eyes lock on what Thor holds in his hands. “You would not—you can’t—”

     “What have you done, Loki?” Thor’s shoulders sag under the weight of his sorrow. “You cannot be allowed to harm yourself again. I am sorry.”  

      _Harm myself?_ Is that what Thor thinks he was doing—trying to purposefully hurt himself, or take his life in such a way? Loki half-reaches for the dagger, mad with panic as Thor prepares to add to the growing length of chain, to shackle him so that he could only sit there on the cot—could not move, could not bring harm to himself or anyone else. Chained to the wall, he will have no chance of leaving the tower until his trial—no freedom.

     He curses, struggling in vain against the might of Thor’s hold on his wrists, as he attaches the new chain to the shackles that already bind him and his magicks—one that clasps to a latch on the stone wall and leaves him little room to move. He pulls uselessly against the restraints, teeth bared. “I will kill you—you and all of your kin—all of Asgard will suffer—”

     “It will only be this way until the trial. I must speak to Father—”

     Loki thrashes mercilessly against the chains, a snarl tearing through his throat. “You tell the All-father that I would have words with him—that I will not play his game—that I am onto him and his false tests. I know he will judge me just as harshly, no matter what I do with his gift—just as he has always done. You tell him  _that_ , Odinson.”

     If Loki was not fuming, he might have laughed cruelly at Thor’s expression of pure confusion and concern. The oaf—Thor has never been the brightest of stars in Asgard, which is saying a lot. “What nonsense do you speak of? What _game_?” Thor’s hands come to rest on Loki’s shoulders, and he twists savagely from his grasp.

     Thor stands to his feet, moving away from Loki and his new, restricted prison. Loki watches from his perch on the cot as the God of Thunder crouches and scoops up the wicker basket of fruits and carries it across the room to him. He sits on the chair, scooting it to face him. “Eat.” He holds out a green apple to him, blue eyes pathetically pleading.

      _If I can even move my arms enough to do so._ Loki stares at the shining, pale green skin before grudgingly taking it between slender fingers. He does not eat it yet, however. He narrows his eyes.

     “I hear they hunt a stag this Winter’s Night,” Thor states softly. Loki is not in the mood for idle conversations.

     He sits back, wincing as his injury meets hard stone. “Do your friends know of your nightly visits to the cell of a war criminal? I highly doubt they would approve—nor do I believe that the All-father would think it wise for the future king to converse with a betrayer of Asgard—especially a Jotun one.”

      The basket goes crashing to the floor, apples pelting the stone and leaving wet marks, and Loki relishes in his achievement. Perhaps the fool will finally let him have some peace—allow him to rot in his cage in silence. But Thor does not leave. “You are not one of them—” Thor tries to make eye contact, Loki glares back, “You may not be Aesir by blood, but you are one of us—you have always been one of us. How can you not see it? You being Jotun means nothing to me.”

     “What a touching sentiment.” He replies wryly. “If it matters not that I am from a race of monsters, then why am I chained up like one?”

     “It is for your own good, Brother—”

     “I did not—” He trails off abruptly, a flicker of a thought slithering through his mind—dark and inviting. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply. He had thought that his plans had been ruined today when the test of the barrier had gone far worse than expected—but now, he is not so sure. Loki looks up, studying Thor’s expression—his pleading gaze. He swallows, glancing down at the apple he turns in his hands. “My mind grows dull, as I am stuck here with no stimulation—I require scrolls and tomes from the library to read. Bring them to me tomorrow afternoon.”

     Thor fails to hide his idiotic smile. “I will do that, if you wish.”

     “Though I expect you have not set foot in the ancient libraries for some time—not since you got us thrown out,” Loki focuses on the wall in front of him, across the room, vision going blurry and unfocused, his own voice and his words far away, foreign to his ears. He chuckles lightly, though a frown soon follows.

     Thor cautiously laughs as well, obviously heartened by the playful jest. “If I recall, Loki, it was you who got us banished—the old library keeper did not take kindly to you practicing sorcery on the scholars.”

     Loki nods slowly, taking a bite out of the apple, juices dribbling down his chin. There is a pause. Loki chews quietly, murmuring between mouthfuls, “I am tired.”

     Taking the hint, Thor exits the room, with a promise that he shall return tomorrow with as many books as he can carry. Left in solitude, Loki lies down on his back on the cot, mindful of the chains, and tries to shut his eyes against the slowly fading light of day. He can hear the whistle of the wind against the tower—can hear ravens and magpies calling, the fluttering of wings. Perhaps Odin is keeping an eye on him after the incident—sending his bird spies to watch and report back to him. “I have not used the dagger, All-father. Not yet.”

* * *

     When morning arrives, Loki has not slept. He is ready, however—content with his decision, though an odd, long forgotten ache remains in his chest—tight and suffocating, something akin to regret. But Loki has not felt remorse in a long time. Loki already has the dagger in his hands when he hears the heavy footsteps that match his heartbeat.

     “If you take one step closer—if you warn the guards or anyone else—I will not hesitate—” His hold on the handle is firm, though the blade trembles as it hovers just a whisper away from his chest.  

     There is a dull thudding as books litter the floor.

     Loki can hardly hear over the sound of his own breathing.

     “Loki—” He is startled by the urgency in Thor’s voice—by the horror in his eyes, “Please, put the weapon down. You must listen to me—”

     “You will unchain me. Now.”

     “I cannot do that—you know I cannot.”

     Loki flinches. He stares down at the glinting blade, at the curve that presses against the fabric of his tunic, against his beating heart. Perhaps he has misjudged the lengths Thor will go to for him—to save him from his path—to spare his life. He laughs to himself, eyes becoming damp. This was his last chance at freedom—there will be no going back after this—no mercy. It appears that Thor, contrary to what he claimed, is no different from everyone else—no different from the man who had let him fall from the Bifrost. He has not noticed how close Thor has gotten, and when he looks up, Thor is beside the cot, hands held up in surrender.

     “Lay down your weapon, Loki.”

     “I will die here away—in this cell—or by the decree of the All-father and the court. They will not show me grace—even if I wanted them to—I have  _nothing_ to lose—”

     “I cannot—”

     “I have nothing.”  

     “Brother, please—”

    “What would you do to make me stay my hand? What would you do to save me?”

      Thor chokes on his words, face anguished, and Loki starts. “Anything—you know I would do anything—”

      _That is why you stayed, Thor. That is why you reframed from the Hunt you have craved for millennia. You stayed for the Destroyer of Asgard, the Bringer of Ragnarok, the Betrayer of All. You are a fool._

     Loki throws his head back and  _laughs_ , breathless, chest heaving with twisted, hollow mirth. His body aches, and he doubles over, strands of sweat-soaked hair falling into his face, sticking and hiding his features in shadow. “It appears that even you—even the mighty, indestructible  _Thor_  has a weakness.” At the golden prince of Asgard—the bright, shining sun of the Aesir’s broken expression—his bent frame—Loki chokes on something between an anxious giggle and a sob. “Is it not fitting—is it not so wonderfully hapless—” He asks savagely, sucking in air, “That my life—my wretched, cursed existence—my company is the only thing for which you have want? And how you have never cared for it until after it was too late? It doesn’t matter now what you want.” He finds that he means every word.

     “Brother, please—”  

     “No.” Loki’s voice is cold, sharp, suddenly devoid of all of the glee and manic hilarity that had filled him with a bubbling, stifling heat moments ago. There is no acting now—no trick or play to convince Thor to free him, only truth. The words leave a bitter taste on his tongue—leave his chest empty with the realization. “This is to be my one triumph. This is  _mine_  to relish in. I will take from you the one spoil of war not bestowed on you.” The chains rattle heavily as Loki’s fingers curl around the handle of the dagger, raising it so that the gleaming tip is poised over his heart. For an instant, he almost believes that he will do it—that he will end his suffering. Perhaps he wants to—like he had at the Bifrost, so very long ago—though it is not his plan to go through with it. 

     “I am sorry, Brother.” Loki is surprised to find that this is no lie.

     For the first time, Loki looks upon the blade and studies it closely. Maybe this is what Odin had intended his fate to be when gifting him the dagger—not a test, but a way out of the torture, or imprisonment, that surely awaited him. He stares hard at the markings on the blade, at the bone hilt and the aged leather ribbon that is wrapped around it. Bile rises in his throat.

      _It is Jotun._

     With a jolt, he can nearly feel the icy chill of that winter in the forest with Thor as children—he can hear the crunching snow beneath their boots—he can see the white stag stand proud and free, an outcast—he can see the crimson snow. He sees Thor’s golden dagger—crafted by dwarves, marked with runes, a blade fit for an Aesir prince—the golden twin to the Jotun blade that is clutched tightly in his hands, making his knuckles blanch. The All-father had intended to give the dagger to him that day after the hunt—and in doing so, revealing to him his true identity. The blood runs cold in his veins.

     “Not a test—not a stratagem—” Loki whispers to the air, “An apology come too late—a reparation.” He laughs, feeling faint. It is over now—for he knows that, though Thor had promised him anything to spare him, that he will not let him go free.

     “Brother, guards are coming, please—there is still time—”

      Loki does not respond. He can feel Thor’s hands on his shoulders, the dagger being pried from his fingers roughly—then, he feels the chains drop from his wrists. Incredulous, he looks down at the shackles that drop to the ground, then to Thor’s devastated face. “Why?”

     “You must go. But when you leave this place, know that it is because I have betrayed all of Asgard for you. I will never forgive myself for what I have done.”

     Loki can sense all of his repressed energy return—his siedr unbidden and flowing, working through his body as he focuses and meditates on a thought. The first spell he casts hides him from Heimdal’s sight. The second transforms him. He is a raven—soaring, flying through the open window at the top of the tower—floating through it like a leaf in the wind. He can taste the fresh air.

* * *

 

     No one questions Thor when he charges to the stables and mounts Sleipnir, the fastest horse in all of the nine realms. No one questions him when he rides through the forests of Alfheim to join the Wild Hunt, and not one of the warriors questions him when he steers them clear of a white stag in favor of a great boar, for no one had seen a lone, outcast raven transform into the stag only moments before. No one questions Thor when he claims that Loki tricked him into allowing him to escape. At the feast, after the hunt has ended, Thor returns the dagger to Odin. Thor tells himself that he will see Loki again, and Thor does not question himself.

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to write a one-shot that involved Norse mythology, and when the Wild Hunt was mentioned briefly in a novel I had been reading, I knew that I had to incorporate it. I feel like post-Avengers Loki imprisonment stories have been done a lot, so I just wanted to try a fresh take on it, and I hope I succeeded.


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